


The Best Men

by kiaronna



Series: YOI One-Shots [14]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:46:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: Just as Viktor lives to surprise, Christophe Giacometti lives to scandalize, to sensationalize. But innocent little Phichit Chulanont is proving to be an impossible victim.OR: where Christophe tries very hard to get under one Thai skater’s skin, and instead finds himself all over the younger skater’s Instagram feed and wrapped around his finger.





	

**Author's Note:**

> They won't tell us who that mystery man is that Chris is always with, and I want Phichit and Chris to have happiness SO BADLY. Also I want them on double dates with the infamous Katsuki/Nikiforov family. So this happened.

Christophe Giacometti is not like Viktor Nikiforov, in many ways. Firstly, he does pay attention to his fellow competitors, knows their names and signature moves and, if they’ve ever interacted face to face, how far he can push their physical boundaries without crossing the line. No one can match Viktor as competition in the Swiss man’s eyes, but he still _knows_. So of course he’s known Phichit Chulanont since he entered Seniors, knows he’s from Bangkok and has only attempted one quad type in competition, knows that he is close to Katsuki Yuuri. It’s one thing to follow his (rampant) Twitter feed, engage in online selfie wars, and grab group dinner at competitions. It’s quite another to be left standing beside only him at the Grand Prix Final banquet, watching their respective best friends fall in love for the millionth time out on the dance floor. Chulanont has his dark eyes locked on them, sparkling, a permanent smile etched onto his lips, fingers fluttering on his champagne flute like he wishes it were a phone screen. Christophe is fairly sure he saw the skater’s Italian coach wresting his cell from his hands earlier near the banquet door.

“Ahh, young love,” Christophe sighs, and Chulanont twists his head to look up at the older skater, excitement visible.

“ _Right_? Where do you think the wedding will be?”

“Hasetsu, I’m sure, Viktor simply won’t stop posting it all over his Instagram.”

“And Yuuri’s whole city _would_ want to attend,” Chulanont says with a smirk, “He’s their hometown hero.”  
“He’s certainly my hero,” Christophe replies with a wink. “Especially when he gets on a pole.”

“Don’t flirt with one half of my favorite couple,” the Thai complains.

“Then I’ll flirt with both of them,” the older skater decides devilishly, and Chulanont’s face just falls into an amused grin.

“Good luck making them pay attention to you. They’ve only got eyes for each other. You’d have to do something drastic.”

Unlike the rumor that Viktor is a playboy, the rumor that Christophe is one has actually been true. But it’s been years since he first burned his way through the international circuit, years since he realized he might like sleeping with his cat more. Old habits die hard. Maybe that’s why he finds himself crossing boundaries, lifting up the younger man’s face and leaning in as he arranges his expression into one that he usually reserves for his more… provocative free skates.

“Oh, I have something in mind,” he drawls. This close, he can see Chulanont’s dark eyes widen, eyelashes fluttering in surprise. Christophe prepares himself to catch the other man’s drink should he fluster enough to drop it, finds himself thinking, _how young and sweet—_

Chulanont surges and firmly presses their lips together. Christophe vaguely registers the sound of shattering glass.

“Called your bluff,” the Thai skater chirps. “Oops. You dropped your glass. I guess that’s one way to make them pay attention.”

The star couple _is_ staring at them, Yuuri’s expression morbidly curious and Viktor’s exasperated at the interruption, laced lightly with concern. Concern for _him_. Christophe is a longtime international sex symbol and (former) playboy. Chulanont is a _twenty year old_ Thai prodigy and Instagram celebrity, and Viktor is concerned for _Christophe_. Chulanont is a _baby_. A baby who’s just upended him with a kiss at a very public party, Christophe forces himself to recall dazedly. Chulanont sidesteps, pulling them both away from the shards.

“Sorry,” the Thai skater is saying mildly, blinking, “I guess I had a bit too much champagne, and today was really exciting. I don’t usually go around kissing people. Yuuri’s worried—” he waves a little and the Japanese man visibly totters towards him “—I’ll be back in a bit.”

Christophe stands still until a waiter approaches with a dustpan.

Viktor, lips pressed in amusement, saunters over to him.

“You looked surprised,” he comments.  
“I’d like another drink.”

They stand by the champagne table, and from the corner of his eye Christophe catches Yuuri sitting the Thai skater down, handing him a glass of water and worriedly patting his shoulder while his friend laughs and reassures.

“Your Yuuri is very affectionate,” he observes.

“He _is_ ,” Viktor begins excitedly, “he always—“ he seems to catch himself, crosses his arms elegantly. “Christophe. Who do you think is in charge, in Yuuri and my’s relationship?”

Christophe rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Yuuri has you wrapped around his finger and sucking at the tip of it. It’s obviously not you.”

Viktor sticks his lip out. “Fine. Then you understand my fiancé’s lure.” Christophe understands enough to tease him with it. “He’s reserved and sometimes quiet, but he never fails to surprise me and he never fails to absorb me completely. That’s the kind of man he is. There’s a reason they’re best friends—I think Phichit is also that kind of man.”

“Quiet,” Christophe repeats, eyebrow raising and slowly pulling his Twitter feed up on his phone for hard evidence, “And reserved?”

“No,” Viktor laughs, “Dangerous for men like us.”

Something sparks in the Swiss skater, a challenge. Christophe Giacometti lives to scandalize, to fluster, to entice, to ravish with just a look. Innocent little Phichit Chulanont and his tipsy kiss don’t know what’s coming for them.

* * *

 

It’s hours later, and the banquet is still going strong. Christophe has made a decision.

“Why don’t we dance, hmm?”

Chulanont and Katsuki are best friends—maybe that’s why Christophe is somewhat surprised to find the Thai skater grabbing his hand and yanking him with no hesitation to the dance floor, face completely lacking embarrassment or regret. Apparently, opposites attract.

“I want to steal Yuuri at some point,” he warns as they take their first few steps, “You grab Viktor and distract him or he’ll pout and won’t let me have proper best friend dance time.”

“I’m hurt,” he says pitifully, “I thought you were willing to dance with _me_.” Chulanont laughs.

“I’ll dance with you too,” he replies, “As a thank you. And an… apology. And a get-to-know-you in real life. Is that okay?”

“I suppose,” Christophe sighs, and Chulanont’s eyebrows knit in exaggerated concern, his slender hand squeezing at Christophe’s shoulder through his suit.

“You poor dear.” The teasing sympathy doesn’t survive, just dissolves at last into a chuckling, cheeky grin and a forced turn, Christophe being pulled awkwardly beneath the shorter man’s lifted arm. He concentrates then, dances properly, and plots even while he has a surprisingly enjoyable evening. It won’t happen tonight, no, but Giacometti isn’t ready to quit just yet.

* * *

 

Viktor gives him the perfect opportunity when he asks him to be his best man.

“It’ll be in Hasetsu, of course, and I’ll pay for your plane ticket if you can manage to come. It’s at the end of the off-season.” Yuuri must be in the room, because he blathers on happily, “Yurio will be attending—he’s our ring bearer—and Phichit is Yuuri’s best man, so if you agree you’d have to coordinate. Do you have his number?”

“I’d love to attend. You’d best make it worth my while, though.” He’s not missing out on the ice skating event of the decade. “Also, no,” he responds plainly as an afterthought, because he’d almost forgotten that they’d never exchange numbers, what with how often they have interacted over social media in the past few years. Within minutes of hanging up his phone pings.

 _Thank you for being there for Viktor. This is Phichit’s contact info_.

He calls without thinking about the time difference, remembers it after the first ring, almost hangs up but is jarred by the voice.

“Hello! Phichit here. Who’s this?”

“What are you doing awake?” It’s almost awkward, the way he says it, and Christophe hates being awkward, so he forges forward as smoothly as possible. “My apologies. This is Christophe Giacometti, by the way.”

“Haha, I figured. As for me being awake, well, Instagram never sleeps.” There’s a long pause, a crinkle of static. “I really like your album for your Florence trip,” he says suddenly. Christophe had been twenty-two, and still attempting to master the selfie. Architecture and dark shots of his reflection in restaurant windows had dominated.

“Well thank you.” He should have thought this call through. They’ve interacted often, often enough for Christophe to say that they’re _friends_ and for them to sit next to each other at skater dinners, to issue the ice-bucket challenge to one another, but one-on-one interactions in real life have been limited. “I’d pick a selfie of yours but choosing just one would be an insult to the rest. They all deserve awards.”  
Chulanont exclaims something in Thai before switching back. “I’m glad _someone_ appreciates them. I tried to ask Yuuri his opinion on my filters and he didn’t even know what Valencia was.”

“Your best friend needs to rearrange his priorities,” Christophe complains. “It’s like Hasetsu has no phone service or cameras.”

The younger gasps. “If they don’t we _cannot_ hold the wedding there. That’s it, I’m changing everything. This is what best men are for.”

The conversation is amusing, but it’s also reminded Christophe that he has a goal. He is going to fluster Phichit Chulanont, no matter what it takes.

“All right. Well, I am _exhausted_.” He yawns with a sigh that shivers just the right amount. “Clearly we have established contact. I’ll text you my email. As for now, I’m going to go to sleep in my silken sheets… in the nude.” The pause is perfect. The image is sensuous. Christophe waits, listens for a sign.

“Huh,” Phichit replies, completely unchanged, “I kind of assumed you slept in bathrobes! Well, goodnight.”

The line dies. Christophe tightens his bathrobe and wonders how far he’s going to have to go.

* * *

 

Phichit’s spoken English is flawless, but his written leaves much to be desired, peppered with spelling errors, acronyms, and slang that make it evident much of his writing practice has been through Twitter and Instagram. Christophe slogs through one email which _actually ends in #Viktuuri_ before he resolves to communicate solely verbally and finds himself calling the younger skater up right before he goes to bed.

“Hey, Christophe. I’m running home from practice right now—I’ll call you back in fifteen?”

“Shower first,” Christophe sniffs, as though somehow that would impact their conversation.

The Thai skater huffs in shallow laughter over the phone, before breathlessly finishing, “Half an hour, then. Thanks for your concern over my hygiene.”

“Hmm,” Christophe hums noncommittally, but when Phichit Facetimes him later he can’t help but laugh at his surprisingly complex drawings of wedding cakes and seating arrangements. They’ve already spoken for an hour, with Phichit breaking off into excitable ice skating tangents, before Christophe feels that day’s practice weighing on his tired muscles.

“I’m amazed that Yuuri feels comfortable with your extravagance,” he says, and his smile is helpless.

“He doesn’t,” Phichit whispers, bringing his mouth close to the phone, “I blackmailed him. I’d show you the pictures but, well, you know how blackmail is.” The skater is clearly incredibly pleased with himself.

“You’re shameless,” Christophe tells him, “I like it. Goodnight, Chulanont.” He’s surprised to find, when his phone screen dims and the mask falls off of his face, that he meant every word. 

* * *

 

Phichit Chulanont is impossible to embarrass. They’re texting a few times a day, which certainly makes it easier to send the younger skater sensational messages, but if he’s shocked it never makes itself apparent. Christophe has already overstepped his usual monthly quota of shirtless selfies—he’s an international sex symbol, but he has class—and sent them all to the younger Thai skater, who mostly responds back with strings of emojis and questions about ab workouts. They exchange pictures of their respective rinks, of their pets, and on Phichit’s end, blurry videos of Celestino’s Italian mispronunciation of the word ‘thick ice,’ which is coming out scandalously. The Swiss calls him when he knows he’s running back from practice.

“I’m on kilometer three and it’s _freezing_ Christophe, please help,” he begs through jittering teeth, “I am a delicate tropical flower. I know you’re just going to tell me to take a warm shower when I get home, but I’m cold _n-now_.”

“It’s all about mindset. Envision your warm bath,” Christophe offers.

“Not helping, sorry!”

“Envision your warm bath, and me in it with you. Steamy, isn’t it?”

“It depends on what we’re doing,” comes the reply and Christophe sits down immediately. _This is it. I’ve got him_. “Yuuri took me to hot springs once and it was still pretty chilly for me until we swam around a bit.”

“A _bath_ ,” Christophe presses impatiently, feeling his opportunity slip away.

“Oh.” The Swiss can’t fathom what the other skater’s face looks like, just hears the steady beat of feet on pavement in the background. “Europeans are really… open minded.”

“Nevermind,” Christophe grumbles. “Call me back when you’re home.”

“Will do!”

The international sex symbol pushes his face into his cat’s fur, and feels like a twelve year old boy whose crush won’t turn around when he pulls their hair in class. _I am twenty-five_ , he reminds himself. _I am twenty five and have medaled at many international skating competitions. I have been named one of the sexiest European bachelors four years in a row. I’m emotionally collected and I’ve embarrassed myself and lost sight of my dreams at multiple competitions but never shed so much as a tear_.

When his phone rings later, he still scrambles for it. 

* * *

 

Their planes arrive around the same time. Phichit fusses with both of their hairstyles (“I-just-spent-twenty-hours-on-an-airplane is not an inspired look.” “We can make anything look good. We’ll start a trend.”), snaps photos of them blowing kisses to the sign welcoming them to Japan. They settle, and Phichit slings an arm over his shoulder and starts babbling about the flight before Christophe can get his bearings. He’s content to sit and listen, interjecting tidbits here and there, while they wait for the loving couple to come and collect them. It’s odd, seeing the Thai skater in person instead of as a miniature on his phone screen after months and months. Usually during Facetimes they’re both curled up in their respective beds, Phichit in hamster-print pajamas and Christophe twirling his bathrobe tie. Now, Phichit is bundled up in a fuzzy coat and stylish jeans. The younger skater must notice his eyes wandering, because he purses his lips in thought.

“It’s odd to see you without your glasses,” he comments. “I guess you never wear them out in public.”

“Do you miss them?” Christophe teases.

“Yep,” Phichit responds abruptly, before continuing on a previous train of thought. At some point, he puts a hand on the younger man’s knee and Phichit pauses for a second, blinks and stares, before continuing his ode to airplane meals. By the time Viktor texts them to come outside, and they are ushered into a car driven by a flushing Yuuri with messy hair, he feels an odd glowing sense of _comfort_. He’s not sure what to do with it. 

* * *

 

He and Phichit banter—argue— passionately over the dance floor arrangement for twenty minutes before Phichit’s eyes light up and he runs off to print something out to show him. Christophe has forgotten Viktor is even in the room, but the ice blue eyes are on him, the head tilted at a dangerous angle.

“You’re… flirting?”

“Finally, s _omeone_ noticed my repeated propositioning of him,” Christophe huffs.

“No,” Viktor says, narrowing his eyes, “You’re _actually_ flirting with him.”

“Is that a crime?”

“I watched you two successfully start a twitter campaign about my wedding together—and for that one charity for homeless kids, yes, Yuuri and I know about that, you’re terrible at hiding who’s spearheading that movement— but I didn’t know you were seriously interested.”

“Who says I am?”

“Your face every time he enters a room,” Viktor replies quietly.

“I’m excellent at controlling my face.”

“Chris.” A completely serious Viktor is a rare sight outside of competitions. “I know how it feels to put on a show. If you’re telling yourself this is a game you’re playing at… well, it’s not anymore.”

Two years ago, Viktor Nikiforov wouldn’t have noticed his facial expression or any minute changes in it, trying so hard to maintain his own façade. They’ve been comfortable friends, _good_ friends, and they’d shared as much as they’d dared to without forcing themselves to admit their deepest faults and insecurities. Now things are different.

_I’m lonely. Skating is my love and someday it’ll leave me._

“I know,” Christophe says finally, “But he’s not interested. Trust me, I’ve tried. And I’m an old man.”

Viktor smirks. “I have silver hair and I’m older than you, but I still can catch young hearts. Don’t give up!”

Phichit bursts in, dragging a doomed Yuuri and waving diagrams in their faces. He’s excitable and genuine and fiercely devoted. Christophe has spent months trying to fluster, to make him feel _anything_ , with increasingly sexual comments and all of the charm the Swiss can muster. The best response he’s gotten is the younger skater pausing for several moments during one drunken phone call before saying, “So you would put my legs…where exactly, while we were in that position?” His easy smile never fades. Christophe swears his advances are being _encouraged_.

And worst of all—worst of all, certainly, is that he can only flirt for so long before he inevitably falls back to his actual life, and the other man is listening to him complain about taking his precious cat to the veterinarian and suggesting yoga poses for Christophe to try. The Swiss knows whole phrases in Thai. He’s tried three recipes straight from Bangkok and done them all spectacularly because Phichit had watched him over the phone and warned him when the meat was going to burn. He’s sent expensive Swiss chocolate through the mail and spent multiple hours discussing the Thai’s Salchow with Celestino.

“Do whatever you want,” he tells the Thai skater, and he hasn’t heard a word for the last ten minutes. “You win.”

The younger man fist pumps, throws his arms around Yuuri, who flushes softly and gives Christophe and Viktor hesitant smiles. They’re impossible. They’re adorable. He and Viktor are permanently screwed.

* * *

 

Phichit has the better room at Yu-topia, so two days before the wedding they settle on its couch to go over last minute details and Phichit’s ideas for surprises. Nothing stays simple, not when they interact, so they end up discussing other things. Christophe can’t say that this bothers him in the slightest.

“This is bad form to say a day before their wedding.” Phichit shrugs, shoves his phone into his jacket pocket, locks attentive almond eyes on the Swiss skater.

“Say it! I won’t mind.”

“I loved Viktor, once. I was very young. We hardly knew each other.” Phichit is talkative; he also knows when to listen. “It was foolish.”

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

“You are Yuuri were closer than Viktor and I ever were. Did you…?”

Phichit worries his pink lips between his teeth, slowly shakes his head.

“Almost. Being that loving with someone, having them cheer your successes and hold your hand through your failures, going home to them at night…” A smile flickers on his face, his voice warming with fondness. “I thought about it, that’s for sure. Yuuri is so special. We’re just not intended for each other, and I never ended up with feelings for him.” He pauses. “Are you gonna be okay tomorrow?”

“I’m fully aware now that Viktor is a ridiculous man whose daily life mostly consists of clinging to his dog and his fiancé. I want that man married and someone else watching out for him when he becomes a sloppy drunk or tries to do his own laundry for the first time. Yuuri is perfect.” Christophe and the Thai skater share amused smiles. “When I first saw them together I knew they were… well, meant to be.”

“Yuuri always basically dreamed about marrying Viktor Nikiforov,” Phichit sighs. “I can’t believe it’s happening in two days.”

“Really? Yuuri told you that was his dream?”

“No, Yuuri always blustered about wanting to be on the ice with him and maybe going out to dinner with him to discuss skating and then having Viktor walk him home, which was his most scandalous fantasy.” Phichit chuckles, settles further into room’s couch. “But I knew he wanted Viktor and he wanted him _bad_.”

“So what do you dream about?” Christophe props his face up on one hand, looks to the side through his glasses. “Did you have posters of me up on your wall? Should I have dinner with you and walk you home?” It’s a joke. Not even close to the most scandalous thing he’s said, and it’s done at normal speaking volume with no seductive undertones.

Phichit colors beautifully, visible even with his dark skin. Christophe’s throat tightens.

“I, um.”

“Did you really, now?”

“No, no, I was thinking about your first question,” Phichit protests. “All right. You can’t tell Yuuri this because I want to tell him myself.” He nervously bends his index finger over his knee, refuses to make eye contact. “I want to start up an ice skating show in Thailand, so I can share what I love with everyone from my home country.”

Christophe realizes, when the younger man continues to stare resolutely forward into space, that he’s embarrassed. Of all of the times.

“That’s a lovely dream,” he assures him, places a hand on his shoulder. “I wish I’d thought of it. Anything specific about it that’s making you so shy?”

Phichit buries his face in his hands. “In the dream,” he starts, muffled, “Everyone is there. You, and Yuuri, and Viktor and Guang-Hong, and Leo, and everyone.” He pauses, his voice dropping to the lowest volume Christophe has ever heard. “We all wear hamster hats.”

This is the man who not days ago hadn’t blinked at Christophe’s vivid account of a foursome. He’d _asked questions about the details_ , for god’s sake (Christophe had promptly embellished the tale). It’s hard to put the two together. He’s struck suddenly by how _young_ Phichit is, how honest and ambitious in a way that Christophe hasn’t felt for years. Christophe has been considering retirement, especially watching the younger skaters begin to overtake him and the familiar faces fading away from the sides of the rink. He’d almost wanted to retire last year, but found he couldn’t leave, not when he hadn’t even medaled at the Grand Prix. Despite all of that, he doesn’t know what he wants to do, where he’s meant to go. He’s been a performer for so long. His home is kitchen appliances he rarely uses and his beloved cat. His friends are his choreographer, his coach, his pole instructor, his aging mother.

“You’re laughing at me,” Phichit accuses lowly, his face still in his hands.

“I’m not,” Christophe says slowly. “I’m wondering if there would be a spot for me to perform in.”

Phichit’s face opens up. Everything is bright. Christophe excels in seduction, but the Thai skater is _better_ , and he’s not even trying.

“Yeah. Right at my side.”

* * *

 

Yuuri is drunk long before the bachelor party begins, thanks to his best friend.

“ _Don’t_ hire a stripper,” Phichit had commanded Christophe. Christophe opened his mouth. “And _you_ are not going to be the stripper, understand.”

“Fine,” Christophe had pouted. “But I would’ve performed so well for you.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Phichit said with the slightest shake of his head, a knowing grin.

It turns out to be a good plan, if the locked closet door at Minako’s bar is any indication, with the grooms nowhere in sight after Yuuri’s performance. Guang-Hong and Leo de la Iglesia are resolutely listening to _very_ loud music together in the opposite corner, and Mila and Sara are snickering about something with an emotional Georgi and an attentive Michele and Emil. Russia’s prodigy and his newfound Kazakh friend are sat atop the other end of the bar, talking with a drunkenly animated Minako.

“Want to find another closet?” Christophe blames the words on habit. They’ve been talking from halfway across the world for so long, and Christophe has been so oddly focused on flustering him and nothing else, that he forgets they’re sitting next to each other at a bar and that certain things have become _possible_.

“Sure.”

Christophe doesn’t move. Phichit is suddenly tipping the remainder of his drink into his mouth, eyes focused on the rowdy crew on the other side of the room.

“You’ll have to be careful,” he hears himself saying, “I’m a dashing older gentleman and know you don’t mean that, but someday someone might take advantage of your shamelessness. You’re impossible to scandalize, you know, it’s very frustrating.”

“ _My_ shamelessness.” The Thai twirls his mug on the dark wooden counter. His expression is smooth. “You’re the one that always says these things and never means it.” He shifts in his seat, fingers suddenly grasping for his phone like some kind of automatic reflex. “I know you’re a playboy, but do you have to always make fun of me just because I clearly have a crush on you? I thought we were friends.” Suddenly the bar seems very quiet, muted. Phichit isn’t done. “Also, it’s only five years. I’m not a kid. We’re competitors in the same division.”

Christophe feels he’s been knocked breathless. Phichit is honest, and shares the majority of his life on social media, and never hesitates to speak his mind about topics that he loves. It doesn’t mean he throws his entire self on display. He’s no stranger to putting on a show.

Everything is foolish, suddenly; what has he been doing? This is a man who kissed him _first_ less than a year ago. They don’t go three hours without texting one another and despite living in separate countries have somehow spent most of the last several months together. Their best friends are getting _married_. Their best friends—

“Phichit, Chris!” The lovebirds have emerged from the closet, and even deigned to put most of their clothes back on. “You two should dance for us now!”

“I think you both should dance again,” Phichit suggests with a grin, and it only takes that suggestion for them to stumble into a drunken tango. “Well, this has been embarrassing! I’m going to go join them.”

Christophe had wanted to embarrass him, to get a rise out of him. His success feels hollow.

“What makes you think I didn’t mean any of those things?”

The Thai’s eyes widen. His pupils dilate and his eyelashes flutter. Christophe likes this embarrassment so, so much better.

“Oh,” he releases, unnecessarily loud and perfectly awkward. “Really?”

“We are going to spend a _lot_ of time in closets together when this wedding is over,” Christophe promises, “And I am very serious about that.”

* * *

 They aren’t needed on Viktor and Yuuri’s wedding night, so they sequester themselves in Christophe’s room and stare at each other.

“It’s been a while,” Christophe confesses, “Since I’ve had a lover. Forgive me.” Phichit takes a deep breath. “Tell me what you’re comfortable doing.”

“Well.” The Thai bites his lip. “I’ve kind of got a list of dirty things you promised to do with me.”

“I had no idea you were keeping track. Or that you even noticed.” The Thai is staring at his empty hands. “Come here?”

He does. Christophe has told him in very explicit terms how soft his lips look before. They’re even softer than he’d thought.

* * *

 

The Katsukis hold a farewell dinner two days after the wedding, before everyone hops on their respective flights. Christophe and Phichit are exchanging national competition dates and the Thai has nearly convinced him to come to Detroit instead of him going to Switzerland (mostly just by squeezing his hand under the table) when they feel eyes on them.

“You’re… you’re together,” Yuuri realizes breathlessly. “I had no idea. I’m a terrible friend.”

“It’s pretty recent, or I would’ve told you everything, Yuuri. But not everyone kisses on national television or grinds on each other at a public banquet, you know,” Phichit teases, elbowing him in the side.

“I’m a fan of exhibitionism,” Christophe inserts sensuously.

“Prove it!” Phichit challenges. Christophe flicks him on his tan cheek and decides to prove it later.

The smile Viktor is giving him is content, and just a little too _I-told-you-so_.

“If you have a wedding,” he asks, “Can we be your best men?”

Christophe chuckles. “But of course.”

Phichit scoffs. “Well, before that,” he exclaims, eyes shining, and Christophe feels a terrified foreboding looming over his future. “We’re going on double dates. _So many_ double dates.”

**Author's Note:**

> Phichit, covered in hamsters: Oh my god. You have a cat.  
> Christophe: You know that already?  
> Phichit: No, you have a CAT. How are we supposed to move in together? She's going to EAT MY BABIES  
> I'm the only shameless one in this situation. Bye now. Thanks for reading.


End file.
